


A [Gingerbread] House in Twilight

by a_silver_sun



Category: Daredevil (TV), Iron Fist (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Luke Cage (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:41:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22071574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_silver_sun/pseuds/a_silver_sun
Summary: “Apparently I’m on a billionaire’s Christmas list,” Jessica mutters and Gillian shakes her head. Jessica continues, “I’m sure he has people for this kind of shit, like, I’ll bet the idiot has no idea he’s even sent out friggen Christmas cards, let alone sent one to me of all people.”“No,” Gillian insists. “I'm telling you. It’s an invitation.”Jessica's invited to a gingerbread house making party. She's not sure if she wants to go.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 45
Collections: DDE’s 2020 New Year’s Day Exchange





	A [Gingerbread] House in Twilight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [livingvakariouslythroughyou (supercow585)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/supercow585/gifts).



> Giftfic for livingvakariouslythroughyou!
> 
> Based on the prompts - "Because that's what heaven is...it's opening the door of a house in twilight and everyone you love is there.” — Justin Cronin, The Twelve 
> 
> -The Fab Four defenders (and any of their other friends you want to include) are doing their own kind of friends’ Christmas celebration and are building a gingerbread house (among any other things you want to add).
> 
> -Frost

*

“These can all go straight into the circular file,” Jessica mutters as she sorts through the enormous stack of mail spilling across her desk. After the umpteenth unopened envelope falls from her fingers and death-spirals into the overflowing wastepaper basket next to her desk, she’s decided she’s officially had enough. “Fuck. This,” she says, because what the hell is the goddamn point of sorting through this dumb mountain of junk mail (Read: bills) if it’s just going to end up in the trash anyway.

“At least _somebody_ around here knows how to keep her desk clean,” she says as she peers at the other desk in the office, currently sitting there alone and unoccupied. The desk is neat and tidy and belongs to Jessica’s very charming assistant, Gillian. _Gillian_ , for some unfathomable reason is a little touchy about the set-up of her work station. She has a _system_ , okay, and if you enjoy your eardrums and possibly your sanity, then you’d better not so much as _breathe_ near her space, let alone touch anything on it, God forbid. Because then you would never hear the end of it. Ever. (Not that Jessica has first-hand experience with this oddly specific scenario or anything.) Leaving aside the fact that Jessica, last time she checked, was still the boss around here, seeing as she owned Alias Investigations, for Christ’s sake.

But whatever. Jessica’s capable of respecting people’s _boundaries_.

Or something.

Look, the point is she’s trying, and at the end of the day, isn’t that what matters most?

“Sounds like bullshit even to me,” she mutters aloud and rescues one of the discarded envelopes from the trash. Hastily, she scribbles a note for Gillian on the back of the envelope, which she wouldn’t even have to do if _Gillian_ just took her lunch breaks chained to her desk like every other goddamn worker bee in this city. But no. Gillian has standards or some shit. (Though honestly, good for her. Way to stick it to the Man. Even if the Man is… Jessica Jones herself. Look. Shut up. So her point got away from her a little bit. Big flipping deal.) 

_Out paying bills_ , Jessica writes. _Mind the store. - J_

Then she tosses the envelope right onto Gillian’s pristine workspace. The envelope slides across the smooth wooden surface and only comes to a stop when it bumps up against one of Gillian’s cloyingly cute cat-themed mugs, which is absolutely jam-packed with various colored pens and pencils. Seriously. Who needs that many pens. Whatever. Gillian can bitch about the intrusion after Jessica gets back from her errand. For now, she has work to do, incriminating photos to take, all that sordid shit.

Hey, it sucks, but at least it’s honest. Unlike this dipshit Jessica’s been hired to stalk. Yeah, okay so _surveil_ is probably the more professional word, but let’s be honest here, _stalk_ is the more accurate one.

This dude Jessica’s out freezing her ass off _surveilling_ from a Hell’s Kitchen rooftop has been (allegedly) spending his lunch hours with some hot young thing in an apartment he’d leased under an assumed name with money he thinks his wife doesn’t know about.

Amazing. Never confuse education with intelligence, folks.

The truth is, Jessica hates these kinds of jobs. The movies may all have different titles, but the plots are almost always the same: yes, your husband is in fact a lousy cheat; here are the photos to prove it. Best of luck on the divorce, you’re going to need it. So why in the hell does she take these soul-sucking jobs if they really are that boring and predictable? Simple. She likes getting paid.

And the woman who hired Jessica is more than good for it if the eyeball-sized rock on her hand is anything to go by. 

Upon introduction, Jessica was not at all surprised to learn that both her new client and the alleged cheating spouse were both hot-shot attorneys, each practicing at prestigious law firms because, in Jessica’s experience, the island of Manhattan was just lousy with lawyers. You couldn’t swing a cat in this city without smacking one in the face. Or three. Just be careful you don’t end up sued for it. 

Human-shaped shadows flit across walls and curtains inside the apartment and Jessica readies her camera.

Jessica doesn’t really see herself as a professional photographer. Yes, she is a professional who very often uses photography in her work as fact-finder, but as far as she’s concerned, it’s only one of the many tools of the trade she has at her disposal. _Photography_ is not what she does for a living. That being said, knowing how to capture clear and compelling photos is a skill and an art, and Jessica’s had plenty of experience perfecting her craft. 

And when it comes to capturing the perfect picture, timing is everything. The right moment might last only a fraction of a second and if you miss it, that perfect shot could be gone forever.

Her camera’s aimed and ready and shadows play on walls and a pair of figures come into view and--

And a split second before she _click click clicks_ away, Jessica’s phone buzzes with an incoming text message. “Balls,” she curses because she startled at the intrusion and she just knows the photos are ruined. She doesn’t even have to look at them to know that they are. “Goddamn it,” because she was sure she had her phone set on silent mode before starting this little stake-out. “It better have been important,” she mutters as she sorts through the half dozen images stored on her camera, all them blurry and useless.

The lovebirds inside the apartment have moved away from the windows, but lunch hour only lasts for so long. She can wait them out. She’ll just continue freezing her ass off out here while she does, but whatever. It’s no big deal. (The things she’ll put up with for a paycheck.)

Well, now that she has time to kill, she might as well check the offending message in case it was important or something. It simply reads: fjkhgfjghfhfjghdhdgfjg and it had come from Gillian. Jessica can’t even be mad because Gillian never sends text messages if she can possibly avoid it.

It was probably a misfire or something. Jessica doesn’t know.

“Well, that was a complete waste of my time,” she mutters and trains her camera on the apartment building’s main entrance. Lunch hour will be over soon enough, and Casanova and his beau have to come out eventually. After all, Mr. Mid-Life Crisis has a prestigious law firm to get back to, and wouldn’t it be a shame if incriminating photos suddenly turned up? Gosh. That would be just terrible.

*

She’s barely through the door before Gillian’s out of her chair and rushing over to greet her. Or trample her. Either one. 

“Let me get settled in first,” Jessica says as she pulls off her scarf and hangs up her jacket. “Jesus.”

Gillian’s buzzing with manic energy, like she’s just won the lottery or something. She’s waving an envelope in Jessica’s face, so maybe she _has_ just won the lottery. Who knows.

“I get to be your plus one,” Gillian announces, completely unprompted.

“Fine,” Jessica says, having absolutely no idea what it is she’s agreeing to. She tosses her camera carelessly onto her desk and flops into her chair. “You’re my plus one.”

Gillian looks like she’s going to burst if she doesn’t say what’s on her mind.

Jessica spreads her hands and makes a face meant to express her supreme impatience. “Well?”

“You know Danny Rand!!” Gillian blurts out, then hands Jessica the envelope she’d written on earlier. 

“Uh, yeah,” she says, like, duh. Anyone who’s been paying attention to _anything_ happening in Manhattan in the last year should know that already. _Gillian_ should know that already. “Don’t get the wrong idea, though,” she hastily adds. “We aren’t friends. Jesus.” Looking more closely at the cream-colored envelope Gillian had handed her, Jessica reads over the messy scrawl of a note she had left on it earlier in the day. She flips it over, and sure enough, there’s her name and address gorgeously hand-written in silver ink with a return address from none other than one Daniel Rand. 

“Apparently I’m on a billionaire’s Christmas list,” Jessica mutters and Gillian shakes her head. Jessica continues, “I’m sure he has people for this kind of shit, like, I’ll bet the idiot has no idea he’s even sent out friggen Christmas cards, let alone sent one to me of all people.” 

“No,” Gillian insists. “I'm telling you. It’s an invitation.”

Jessica narrows her eyes at her assistant. “I have a sixth sense about these things,” Gillian explains with a flap of a hand, and sure. Whatever. Jessica rolls her eyes and holds the letter up to the light to see if she can make out what’s inside. Squints at it, flaps it, turns it over a few times. She assumes Gillian tried gleaning the envelope’s contents this way alone here in the office, but the only thing Jessica can make out is a solid square of some kind of cardstock. 

So she shrugs and tears the thing open.

“Looks like you win the bet,” Jessica says as she reads the words “You’re invited!” beautifully calligraphed in silver ink on cream-colored card stock. The invite is even personally signed by Danny Rand himself. Gillian, of course, is sitting over there at her desk looking smug as shit. 

“So does that mean I’m your plus one?”

“Ugh. I _guess_. I don’t know. That’s if I even go.”

“You _have_ to go!! It’s Danny Rand!!”

“Yeah, exactly. It’s Danny Rand.”

The invitation is for a gingerbread house making party, in the style of those trendy paint night events. Enclosed along with the handwritten card is a pair of tickets and a colorfully festive Christmas-themed flyer proclaiming: Gingerbread House Making and Decorating Party! 21 + Only! Prizes! Holiday Themed Cocktails! and smaller print toward the bottom describing the contents of each kit, event prices, coupons, group discounts, all that happy shit. 

“Well, at least there’ll be booze,” Jessica says, completely baffled. Why the hell Danny Rand is formally inviting her to a gingerbread house building event at some upscale bar in Midtown is completely beyond her. If he thinks this is going to be some kind of date, then Dragon Boy is dumber than he looks.

“So you’re going?!”

“Ugh. I don’t know. Probably not.” She tosses the invitation, flyer and all, carelessly onto her desk. 

“Why?! You _have_ to! You’ll get to hang out with _the_ Danny Rand!!” And Jesus. Who knew Jessica’s office assistant was such an Iron Fist fangirl.

“Yeah, no. Been there, done that. And. What are you, president of his fan club? Believe me, Danny Rand is not that interesting.” 

“He has money. That’s what makes him interesting.”

“Yeah. Sure. Fine. You know who else has money? Our client.”

“I will set up another appointment,” Gillian says, practically reading Jessica’s mind. The faster they wrap up this case, the faster they get paid for it.

“And this is why I keep you around.” Weird fixation on Danny Rand notwithstanding.

*

Later in the week, and late, late into the night, Jessica’s walking home from the liquor store, paper bag held close to her chest when she spots two silhouettes gracefully tumbling across rooftops and leaping between buildings. The first figure Jessica easily recognizes as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. (And she has a whole host of disparaging nicknames for that guy: ‘The Dork of Hell’s Kitchen’ is an obvious one. Then there’s ‘Devil Boy’ and the many variations thereof. Or if she’s feeling particularly cruel, ‘Counselor.’) Then Horns for Brains stops and crouches down right along the ledge of the building. His companion crouches next to him and even from clear across the street turns full-bodied in Jessica’s direction. Yeah, she’s been made. Just great.

So she can’t say she’s entirely surprised when she finds Trish waiting by Jessica’s door, dressed entirely in black like a neighborhood prowler. Or cat burglar.

Jessica nudges her friend out of the way and shifts the heavy paper bag onto her hip as she unlocks the door. She doesn’t say anything to Trish, just gestures her inside after shouldering the door enough to get it to open, staying mindful not to break it clear off its hinges. The door sticks. It’s very annoying. (Good thing she’s sober, Jesus Christ, because sometimes it’s a little too easy to forget your own strength when you’re falling down drunk. She has definitely broken things that way.)

Trish wordlessly follows Jessica inside as Jessica sets the paper bag onto the counter and starts unpacking her booze haul. Then she pulls a black coffee mug down from an overhead cabinet.

Jessica gestures toward Trish with the mug. “Care for some?” but Trish shakes her head no.

Jessica shrugs and pours herself a finger of the cheap whiskey she’d brought home, downs it, and pour a couple of fingers more. As she does, she asks, “So. How long have you and Murdock been a thing.”

Trish has one of the worst poker faces Jessica has ever seen. And she’s seen a lot of bad poker faces in her time. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Can it,” Jessica says around another swallow of booze. “I saw you guys out there. And if you’re trying to protect his identity or whatever? Forget it. He knows I know. It’s not like it’s a big secret or anything.”

Trish huffs. “We’re not… a thing. It’s not like that.”

“I didn’t even know you knew each other.”

“We’re working together,” Trish says a little too defensively. She makes a slightly pained face and adds, “He’s kind of…”

“Weird? Creepy? Annoying?”

“Rigid,” Trish says. “He has all these _rules _and he expects me to follow them all down to the very last letter. It’s,” She shakes her head. “It’s _stifling_.”__

“Well, he is a lawyer,” Jessica mutters. She sets her mug next to the sink with a groan. It’s late and she’s tired and she just wants to go to bed. “Please tell me you didn’t stop by here at,” she checks her wrist for an imaginary watch, “ass o’clock at night just to bitch about Matt friggen Murdock.”

“No. Like you said. We saw you walking home, and I remembered I wanted to ask you about the thing.”

"You could have called. Like, tomorrow." 

“I know! I just wanted to see you. You know, see how you’re doing?”

“Fine. Everything’s fine.” She’s not lonely or some shit. She’s busy. She is. It’s all been great.

“Hm. Feels like I hear that a lot lately.” 

____

Jessica’s not sure what that means. It certainly wasn’t directed at _her_. She and Trish… they haven’t exactly been speaking a whole lot. Lately. It’s neither of their faults. Life happens. But at least now Jessica has a better idea of what Trish’s life has been looking like these days. 

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But it’s late and she’d really rather not get into all that. So instead, she just asks, “Thing. What thing.” 

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“Oh. Well.” Trish laughs awkwardly. “This is kind of embarrassing. I thought maybe you got an invitation in the mail? From Danny?” 

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"The gingerbread thing?!” Jessica blurts out and Trish looks relieved to hear her say it. “I wasn’t planning on it,” Jessica adds, even though that’s not exactly true. She’s still largely undecided whether she wanted to actually go or not. Mostly due to the fact that she’s completely baffled by the whole thing. Decorating gingerbread houses with Danny Rand? Just. _Why_. Though knowing Trish had also been invited and plans on attending herself changes the dynamic by a whole hell of a lot. 

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After a pause, Jessica says with feigned indifference, “Why. Who else is going.” 

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“I’m pretty sure it’s strictly a Defenders thing?” 

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“Ugh,” Jessica groans a little too dramatically. “Who even came up with that. God. And. Does this mean you’re a--” she flaps a hand. “You know. A _whatever_.” She can’t bring herself to say it out loud. There isn’t a team. It doesn’t have a name. Saving the city or whatever? That was a one-time deal. There is no small-time version of the Avengers or some bullshit because seriously. Who has time for that? Not Jessica, that’s for damn sure. 

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“Well, Matt’s going. And I’m kind of. I don’t know. Under his wing, I guess? So I’d say that counts. Plus, I did get my own invitation in the mail.” 

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“Well, I mean if _Matt’s_ going.” 

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“C’mon, Jess. Don’t be like that. He likes you, you know.” 

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“ _He likes me?_ What is this, the third grade? Do I need to watch out for little devil boys pulling on my pigtails at recess?” 

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“I just mean maybe you could be a little nicer.” 

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Trish looks pointedly at her, wide-eyed and imploring. 

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“Ugh,” Jessica groans, because, “I’m such an asshole.” Trish isn’t actually talking about _Matthew Murdock_ here. “Come here,” Jessica says and reaches an arm out to her friend. 

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The embrace they share is warm and close, and as they stand there in the middle of her apartment, it feels like she’s finally home. “Thanks, Jess,” Trish says, a little wetly. 

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But Jessica would prefer it if this didn’t turn into a whole _thing_ , so when they do break apart, Jessica holds her friend by the shoulders, looks her square in the eye, and very solemnly says, “Take the couch if you want. I don’t care. But. I’m going to bed.” 

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But Trish is all smiles when she says, “Sweet dreams, Jess.” 

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_*_

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As is predictably typical of Gillian, especially for a Friday, in the minutes and seconds before the digital clock on her freakishly immaculate desk reads 4:59 p.m., she’s busy gathering up her belongings so she can bee-line it for the door at exactly 5 o’clock on the dot. 

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But first, she unplugs the string of lights around the tiny potted Christmas tree she brought in to live on her desk when she realized Jessica had no intention of decorating for the holiday. 

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Jessica just didn’t care enough to be bothered. 

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“Tell Danny Rand I said hi!” Gillian says as she shrugs into her heavy winter coat. 

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“I have a second ticket, you know.” 

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“But I have a date tomorrow! See you Monday! Have fun!” And with that Gillian’s out the door, not to be heard from again until Monday morning, 8 a.m. sharp. And not a second sooner. 

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* 

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The problem with winter in New York is — okay, one of the many problems with winter in New York between the ice and snow and freezing cold — is how depressingly early it starts to get dark. 

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The gingerbread house building party starts at 4 p.m. according to the flyer, and the sky is already in a fiery blaze as the sun creeps toward the horizon. 

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The bar is a far cry from the usual dives Jessica tends to frequent. It’s clean and warm and quiet and exactly one patron sits at the bar, a young professional type nursing a beer while his face is glued firmly to his device. She doesn’t see any kind of party happening here, but she does hear the occasional short bursts of laughter coming from somewhere toward the rear of the building. There’s blindingly bright light streaming in the room as the sun sinks lower and lower in the sky. Jessica has to shield her eyes from it. A server wearing a long white apron suddenly materializes from the back and begins closing up all the blinds for the evening. Soft music comes on, the lights dim, and the dapper young man collects his coat to leave. 

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Jessica removes her fingerless gloves and shoves them into her pockets as the guy collecting tickets for the event tries to make idle conversation. 

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“Not for nothin’,” the guy’s saying, “but there’s a reason people wanna gather with friends and loved ones when it starts getting cold and dark like this. It’s like, primal, you know?” 

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“I guess,” Jessica mutters. She’s not really interested in this guy’s sooper deep thoughts on the “importance of community” during the harsh winter months and how our ancestors survived them and _blah blah blah_. Snore. She just wants to know where she needs to go to get her promised free adult beverage. 

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The dude at the door chuckles at her as if he honestly finds her particular brand of ascorbic wit charming or whatever. He points toward a narrow hallway near the back wall. “Take that corner, go down the hall, an’ the door you want’ll be on your right. Hand this to the person at the bar,” and he hands Jessica the ticket stub, “and get your kit and your drink. And that’s it! Have fun.” 

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She does her best approximation of a polite smile and heads toward the back as instructed. The double doors push open into a large room filled with long wooden tables and benches, and at the table in the center of the room sits a half a dozen people, most of whom she hasn’t seen in a year or more. 

____

It’s Luke’s handsome mug she spots first. He gives her a small wave, and she’s pretty sure he knew Jessica had arrived even before she came in through the door. Murdock’s seated on the bench across from Luke, with his back (and the back of his head) facing the door, and Jessica hears him say, “You owe me a twenty,” and Luke dutifully reaches for his wallet. 

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“Don’t be so smug about winning that bet,” Jessica says as she makes her way to see the woman behind the bar to collect her gingerbread house kit. “I’m only here because the thought of watching a blind guy try to frost a gingerbread house sounds absolutely fucking hilarious.” 

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Murdock jerks his head over his shoulder so Jessica can see his smirk. “Why do you think I brought Foggy?” he says, and dear God, she completely forgot Murdock’s buddy is named ‘Foggy’ of all fucking things. 

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Jessica approaches the counter and greets the server working there. She smiles warmly and hands Jessica her kit. “I’ll bring you your cocktail when it’s ready,” the girl behind the counter says before turning around to prepare Jessica’s cocktail. 

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“Thanks,” Jessica mutters and goes to stand behind where Murdock and Trish are sitting on the bench. 

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“Scooch,” Jessica says, and they slide apart to make room for her. 

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“Jess,” Trish says by way of greeting as Jessica sets her kit on the table and her ass on the bench. 

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“Hi hi hi,” she says and receives a chorus of the same in return. 

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She bumps shoulders with Murdock and solemnly says, “I don’t need to give you the shovel talk now, do I.” 

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He pauses. Turns his head so that his glasses give the illusion of eye contact. “I’m not actually sure what that means?” he says, and his friend comes to his rescue by whispering an explanation in his ear. Murdock’s eyebrows go way up and his cheeks turn almost as red as his glasses. 

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With a small stutter and an even smaller chuckle, he says, “Ah, no. It’s nothing untoward, I promise you.” 

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Trish gives them both a sharp look. _Yeah,_ Jessica thinks, _we’re talking about you._

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Murdock continues, “She’s very,” and here he gestures toward Trish, “enthusiastic. But she’s also very green.” He clears his throat, seemingly uncomfortable with this line of conversation. “She could use a little, you know. Reining in.” 

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“Hey,” Trish complains. 

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But Murdock puts his hands up, placating. “I just mean I’m glad you’re on our side.” 

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“Oh,” Trish says. Then: “Thanks, Matt.” She looks a little stunned, like he’s just given her the best Christmas present she’s ever received. His friend Foggy in the meantime looks as if he’s having the mother of all lightbulb moments. 

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Jessica folds her arms and tries not to pout about feeling left out of the loop. 

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Trish seems to pick up on it anyway. “You could come out with us sometime if you wanted to. Matt’s an okay teacher.” Trish says that last part with a wink and Murdock preens at the compliment. 

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Across the table, Danny rips open the tiny plastic baggies filled with candies from his gingerbread kit and starts pouring them straight into his mouth. 

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“You do know those are for the houses, right,” she says as she opens up her own house-shaped cardboard box. She pulls out the plastic-wrapped sheets of soft, flat gingerbread, several tiny packages of assorted candies, and tubes of white, red, and green frosting and sets them all on the space in front of her on the table. 

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“There’s no wrong way to decorate your house,” Danny sagely says, and she supposes she has to give him that much. 

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Their server arrives and carefully sets a martini glass down on the table, mindful not to spill any of its contents. “Thanks,” Jessica mutters and picks up her drink to inspect it. Five ounces of unidentified brown sludge fills the v-shaped glass. The drink is rimmed with graham cracker crumbs and garnished with an adorable dollop of whipped cream topped with red and green sprinkles. 

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“I am not going to say what this looks like,” she says as she swirls her drink skeptically. 

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“Well,” Murdock says, “at least it tastes nice.” 

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“It’s a gingerbread cocktail,” Murdock’s lawyer friend helpfully adds. 

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“Sure. Why not.” Jessica takes a sip, and yeah. It’s very gingerbread. She raises a hand, and their server appears next to her like magic. “Bottle of whiskey,” Jessica says, and the poor girl looks to Danny for what to do next. 

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He nods, and she disappears back behind the counter. 

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“So what, did you rent out the whole bar for this?” Jessica says. 

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“Nah,” Danny replies. “Just this back room.” 

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“I have to know: what in the world possessed you to set this up.” 

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She sips at her cloyingly sweet cocktail, just for something to do while she waits for the good stuff. 

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“Actually it was Luke’s idea,” Danny says, still crunching away at his red and green colored M&Ms. 

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“Of course it was,” Jessica says and Luke smiles disarmingly. “Only Luke Cage could come up with something this corny.” 

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“Hey now,” he says, but he’s smiling warmly as he works on assembling his gingerbread house. “I just figured it would be a fun way to get everyone together.” He looks up and pointedly at Jessica. “It is Christmas, after all.” 

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“Did you get the history of winter holiday traditions from the kid at the door, too?” she says, and he gives her a puzzled look. So probably not. 

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Doesn’t matter anyway, because their server returns just then with a big bottle of whiskey and a half dozen glasses. 

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“Nice!” Foggy, the lawyer dude says. He grabs the bottle and immediately starts pouring everyone drinks. Murdock first, then Jessica, then Trish, then the sword girl, then Danny, then Luke. After pouring for himself, he lifts his glass. He’s smiling like a goober, but everyone leans in to tap their glasses together, Jessica included. 

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Okay, so yeah. This entire thing is dorky as all hell. But you know what? It’s kind of nice, too. And. The company’s not so bad, either. Just don’t ask her to admit to any of that out loud.

*

Monday morning, 8 a.m. sharp, Gillian unlocks the door to Alias Investigations and goes about setting up her workspace for the day. Turns on the lights, plugs in her tiny Christmas tree, and makes herself a cup of coffee using the cutest coffee mug she has at her disposal. Gillian has a whoooole collection of stupidly cute coffee mugs; mostly because they’re colorful and cute and they make her happy, but also because anything as saccharine as cat-themed mugs annoys her boss to no end. Her boss, Jessica is… well, presumably she’s still sound asleep in the next room, but Gillian is in no position to judge; she’s here to work and by now she’s entirely used to the quirks and weirdness of being employed by someone as wholly unreliable as Jessica Jones. 

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Come on, now. Gillian keeps this place _together_. 

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The first thing she finds on her desk is a note messily scribbled on the back of some discarded scrap of paper. Gillian double-checks to make sure the discarded scrap isn’t of any importance. It’s not, so she goes to read the note left for her. The note reads: “ _Morning. Do me a favor & give Nelson and Murdock a call. Pls set up an appt. w/them. Yeah yeah, I know they already have an in-house P.I. over there -- I’m not trying to step on Page’s toes here. It’s for something else. Just set up an appt, okay? Thx. -- J”_

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“Whatever,” Gillian mumbles and punches in the number. As the line connects, she notices an elaborately decorated gingerbread house sitting kitty-cornered on Jessica’s desk. Before she has time to register its significance, a cheerful male voice answers, “Nelson, Murdock, and Page, Nelson speaking. How can I help you today.” 

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And Gillian sets up an afternoon appointment for her boss, Jessica Jones, having no idea what the appointment is actually for. 

-the end-

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3


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